Several months ago, I was at my dentist’s office and they asked me if I had any concerns. Boy, did I EVER!

It had a lot to do with a certain pus-filled mouth zit erupting from my driver’s-side back molar. I asked if they could use pop the dumb thing and let me be on my way.

Unfortunately, nothing is ever that simple in the medical industry. So, they did an invasive X-ray and found a nice, juicy abscess back there. Lovely!

At their behest, I visited an oral surgeon. Why an oral surgeon? Because my regular dentist didn’t want me hating his guts for the rest of my life. Let someone else painfully extract bone fragments from my cranium.

And, might I say, I am seriously, deliriously happy at the outcome. Having that molar removed has changed my life. Pretty much all I do for amusement now is see how far back I can reach my tongue into that dental crater. Nom, nom, nom… geez, that’s fun!

Tried to get my wife to do the same but I’m afraid she’s just not as experimental as she was back when we were teenagers.

Registration was simple enough, though during my extraction I was trying to recall whether they included “hemophilia” on the checklist of prior medical conditions. Oh, well. Too late now.

I was cared for by the coolest couple of dental nurses. They were sympathetic to my emotional state — and my constant talking.

Upon hearing my perpetual drivel, the oral surgeon seemed concerned that they had given me too much nitrous oxide. He was even more concerned when it was revealed I hadn’t had the first sniff.

I was prepared to engage him in a deep discussion on the metaphysical significance of the pointed, rubber doohickies on the end of old toothbrushes. But he quickly grew tired of my theories and commenced to pulling that abscessed chopper before I could begin philosophizing.

I was amazed at the speed of extraction. Even with a sprawling root system that was opening branch offices somewhere beneath my jawbone, it took the dental surgery team maybe two minutes to have the tooth removed.

My appointment was at 10:30 a.m. That’s strange. I figured it would be around 2:30... “tooth hurty.” HAWHAW! GET IT?

Hmmmm... no wonder they got me out of there so fast.

My only beef? They did not give me a swag bag like my usual dentist does. I knew I should have tipped them. I’m tellin’ ya, getting two new toothbrushes a year and a pack or two of that string really edges my budget back into the black.

Anyways, I was glad to get that mercury-leaching, root-infected freeloader out of there.

Another good thing: I’m saving several seconds a day on flossing now. That’s how I had time to write this column.

(Seriously, I can’t keep my tongue out of this thing. Nom, nom, nom! It’s like a bone quarry. But I digress.)

They even catered to my Baby Boomer nostalgia by sending me away with a mouthful of those red plaque-indicating tablets. Had that stuff oozing out of my mouth all the way home. Wait a minute... I didn’t get any red tablets. Then what was…ICK!!!

Spent the rest of the evening trying to fit an entire bag of gauze squares into my jaw. I think 20 was my record.

Their post-op eating instructions were nothing if not precise. Unfortunately, I consider Hunt Brother’s pizza to be a “clear liquid.”

That being said, my dental health is awesome now. Like a pack of wildebeests, the sick member was removed from the herd and the remainder of my enamel-coated bean-gnashers are stronger than ever. After having one of their long-time brethren removed, the rest of my teeth are now scared of attrition. They know it’s only one little cavity or twinge of discomfort and I am back in that oral surgeon’s chair and they’ll be jerked into oblivion.

In the meantime, nom, nom, nom.

Todd’s weekly column: Aw, come on! You owe it to him.